An inventive genius was Billy. He never employed the same defensive tactics two days in succession, and when personal flattery threatened to fail him, a large crayon reproduction of the late Henry Jenks, which hung over the back bar, was a never-failing source of inspiration.
This was the “sainted'Enery” previously referred to by Mother Jenks. He had been a sergeant in Her Brittanic Majesty's Royal Horse Artillery, and upon retiring to the Reserve had harkened to a proposition to emigrate to Sobrante and accept a commission as colonel of artillery with the Government forces then in the throes of a revolutionary attack. The rebels had triumphed, and as a result 'Enery had been sainted via the customary expeditious route; whereupon his wife had had recourse to her early profession of barmaid, and El Buen Amigo had resulted.
However, let us return to our sheeps, as Mr. Geary would have expressed it. Seemingly the effect of Billy's compliment was instantly evident, for Mother Jenks set out two glasses and a bottle.
“I know yer a trifler, Willy Geary,” she simpered, “but if I do s'y it as shouldn't, I was accounted as 'andsome a barmaid as you'd find in Bristol town. I've lost my good looks, what with grief an' worritin' since losin' my sainted 'Enery, but I was 'andsome oncet.”
“I can well believe it, Mother—since you are handsome still! For my part,” he continued confidentially, as with shaking hand he filled his brandy-glass, “you'll excuse this drunkard's drink, Mother, but I need it; I had the shakes again last night—for my part, I prefer the full-blown rose to the bud.”
Mother Jenks fluttered like a debutante as she poured her drink. They touched glasses, calloused worldlings that they were.
“'Ow,” said Mother Jenks, toasting the philandering wretch.
“How!” He tossed off his drink. It warmed and strengthened him, after his night of chills and fever, and brazenly he returned to the attack.
“Changing the subject from feminine grace and charm to manly strength and virtue, I've been marking lately the resolute poise of your martyred husband's head on his fine military shoulders. There was a man, if I may judge from his photograph, that would fight a wildcat.”
“Oh, m'ybe 'e wouldn't!” Mother Jenks hastened to declare. “You know, Willie, I was present w'en they shot 'im, a-waitin' to claim 'is body. 'E kisses me good-bye, an' says 'e: 'Brace up, ol' girl. Remember your 'usband's been a sergeant in 'Er Majesty's Royal 'Orse Artillery, an' don't let the bloody blighters see yer cry.' Then 'e walks out front, with 'is fine straight back to the wall, draws a circle on 'is blue tunic with white chalk an' says: 'Shoot at that, yer yeller-bellied bounders, an' be damned to yer!'”